


Eowyn's Doubt

by Lady_Juno



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Doubt, Gen, Illness, Shieldmaiden, Stalker Grima, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Juno/pseuds/Lady_Juno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn isn't sure that Grima is trustworthy. She's not sure he's untrustworthy either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eowyn's Doubt

 There was a definite chill to the air. Eowyn wrapped her voluminous sleeves around herself, shivering against the biting wind. Really, the balcony didn't command more than a sad view of sick, yellow grass and the shapes of horses on the distant hills, shaggy with thick winter coats. The Hall was too... too lonely, the footsteps of the guards echoing too loudly in the empty space. Eomer and Theodren were away on patrol, leading the Riders of the Mark as bravely as anyone could ask. And yet, there was a part of her that wished they weren't leading them. That wished Eomer was still here; a comforting, warm presence beside her. 

"My lady." The presence beside her was neither comforting, nor warm. Eowyn turned her head to look at him, and would have stiffened if she weren't already braced against the wind. Grima, her uncle's trusted advisor, was looking at her from a polite distance, but still too close for her liking. The blonde took a step away, shivering from more than just the cold. 

"Grima," she greeted with as slight nod, glancing toward the door. There were no guards in sight. Dread started to creep up her spine and into her stomach, seeping into her lungs. She tried to hold it at bay by sucking in a deep breath of fresh air, concentrating on the smells of woodsmoke and ice. 

"A bit chilly to be out without a cloak," the advisor pointed out, and solicitously removed his coat, the oily black fur ruffling in the wind as though it were still attached to some poor, unfortunate animal. 

"I'm fine," said Eowyn, perhaps a bit more sharply than she'd meant to. Hastily, she added "but thank you, anyway," to soften the rejection. Grima frowned, still holding his coat. The man seemed smaller than he was, always hunched over, his sallow cheeks hollow, his eyes dark and sunken. It was said that he'd suffered some illness on his travels some years previously, and had never really recovered. At first, she'd felt sorry for him. He wasn't repulsive, so much as oily and unattractive. But it was more than his appearance that put her off now. He had been watching her for some time, and she wasn't so preoccupied with her uncle's waning health that she hadn't noticed. He made excuses to be in the same room with her, lingered over his paltry meals to exchange pleasantries with her. Nothing invasive. Merely... unsettling. 

Eowyn tried to assure herself that the man meant well. Looking at him now, he seemed disappointed, not evil. Like any man might be if he offered his services to a lady he fancied and she turned him down flat. The young woman felt a twinge of guilt. What if she was just being paranoid? There was nothing wrong with a man of means, but no physical appeal, to fancy a lady whom he sees a great deal. After all, Grima had once been a quick-witted, intelligent warrior, a proud Rider of the Mark, just like her brother. 

Grima advanced a step, holding his coat out to her. "Please, my lady," he said, in silky tones. "I wouldn't want you to catch a chill. The days of autumn grow short, and there is ice in the air. With the king doing poorly, it wouldn't do for our fair princess to fall ill as well." The soft cadence of his smooth words held her in place when she might have otherwise moved away. Grima came closer, moving to drape the coat around her shoulders. It smelled... like whiskey. Like the oil used for lighting the torches and lanterns. Like the sharp tang of hot metal. But there was a scent missing. Eowyn broke out of her reverie and retreated again. There was no horse-smell. It wasn't right.

"No, thank you." She tried to smile, but there was a bad taste in her mouth, so she wasn't sure whether she was at all successful or not. "I was about to go inside anyway. Your offer is a kind one, but I don't need it." Turning, she strode quickly toward the door, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no idea what it was that had frightened her so- was it really only that his coat didn't smell of horse and hay and sweat, like all of her uncle's things, and her cousin and her brother, and every guard in the Hall? Every Rohirrim she had ever encountered smelled of hay and earth and horse, like men _should_ smell, as far as she was concerned. Any yet... was _not_ having that distinctive musk a crime? Was it something that she should hold against him? 

Eowyn looked over her shoulder and bit her lip. Grima was standing just inside the door as she walked away, still holding his coat. He looked small and weak without it on. Bony. Wasted. Perhaps there was nothing to distrust about him. A sickly man who had served his country well while he could. But Eowyn didn't trust him. Wrapping her arms around herself again, she made her way to Theoden's chambers. She would tend to her uncle-king, make sure he had everything he needed, and not think about Grima Wormtongue. And hope the Eomer came back soon.


End file.
